


with length of tail

by bullroars



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Thieves, F/M, Flirting, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mission Fic, Pre-OT3, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 05:45:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5573107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bullroars/pseuds/bullroars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Kiev, Illya meets a thief.  Well, he passes a dark-haired, grinning man in the ballroom of the Opera Hotel.  Their shoulders brush.  </p>
<p>“Pardon,” Illya says reflexively, already looking past the man.  He is here to acquire the skills of a Ukrainian biologist.  </p>
<p>“Don’t mention it,” the dark-haired man says, in French-accented Russian, and Illya doesn’t think of him again until the morning paper tells him that three Faberge eggs were stolen from the Opera Hotel the night Illya was there.  The article is accompanied by a rough sketch of the thief—dark hair, a half-smile, a pressed suit—and Illya says out loud, in the middle of the KGB field office, “I know this man.”</p>
<p>(or, the CIA never caught Napoleon Solo and a thief known only as the Magpie won't leave Illya the fuck alone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	with length of tail

**Author's Note:**

> part II of my "finish all your works in progress by january 31, you fucking loser" resolution. this fic has been sitting in my folder since fucking august.

with length of tail

 

In Kiev, Illya meets a thief.  Well, he passes a dark-haired, grinning man in the ballroom of the Opera Hotel.  Their shoulders brush.

"Pardon,” Illya says reflexively, already looking past the man.  He is here to acquire the skills of a Ukrainian biologist. 

“Don’t mention it,” the dark-haired man says, in French-accented Russian, and Illya doesn’t think of him again until the morning paper tells him that three Faberge eggs were stolen from the Opera Hotel the night Illya was there.  The article is accompanied by a rough sketch of the thief—dark hair, a half-smile, a pressed suit—and Illya says out loud, in the middle of the KGB field office, “I know this man.”

“Ah,” says Oleg, looking over Illya’s shoulder.  “ _La pie._ ”

Illya’s French is not the best.  He frowns.  “What?”

“The Magpie,” Oleg explains, already losing interest.  “They call him the most successful thief in all of Europe.”

“And he is a Frenchman?”

Oleg shrugs again.  “Who cares?  Focus.  Your next assignment is in Damascus.  Plane leaves in two hours.  Forget about this thief.”

Illya does.  He completes his mission in Damascus, then one in Warsaw, then two back-to-back in Georgia.  In Brussels he is shot by a Circus operative with a hangdog face and sent to run field operations in East Berlin while he recovers. 

There, he drives his car into a tank pursuing a CIA agent who has just shot one of his junior operatives, and meets Gaby.

The thief slips to the back of his mind, because Gaby is the daughter of Udo Teller, a Nazi rocket scientist turned American lapdog, and she makes Illya feel too light in his body, like he’s made of air and fire instead of flesh and bone. 

Taking an East German lover has never occurred or appealed to Illya.  Some of the other agents take mistresses in every city, but Illya has never had the time or inclination.  His comrades relax whenever Illya goes out to see Gaby; they think he is one of them, now, as fallible and driven by the needs of his flesh as they are. 

Illya is not like them.  What he feels for Gaby is not lust.  But being around her makes the red mists recede, makes his hands ache to hold her and his heart kick in his chest, so he keeps going to see her. 

"You still haven’t told me what you do,” Gaby says, two months after she overcharges Illya for fixing his car.  Illya has not kissed her.  He wants to.

“Eh,” says Illya, “this and that.”

Then, in late April, Oleg shows up at the garage with a gun and a mission.  “So this is your chop shop girl,” he says, and sends them both, Illya and Gaby, to Rome. 

“What does the KGB want with my father?”  Gaby spits.  Illya opens and closes his hands helplessly.  She hasn’t looked at him since Oleg came and pressed her into service.  Illya has never felt like a _spy_ , like a liar, like a thief, until now. 

“I don’t know,” Illya says, truthfully.  “It is above my pay grade.”

They pose as a married couple.  They sleep in separate beds.  Gaby secures an invitation to her uncle’s company’s party, and Illya climbs into a suit and tries to play nice.  He aches for Gaby, but that is nothing new.  He helps Gaby, still bristling, into a car.  He tries not to think about violence. 

Gaby’s Uncle Rudi is a horrible little man.  He makes Illya’s skin crawl.  His business partner Alexander Vinciguerra is even worse—he flirts openly with Gaby, and Illya is ten seconds away from punching his teeth in when Vinciguerra’s wife, Victoria, glides over to them accompanied by a dark-haired man who walks like his joints are oiled smooth. 

Illya stills. 

“This must be your Gaby,” Victoria says, and kisses both of her cheeks.  Illya and the dark-haired man—the Magpie—lock eyes.

The Magpie says, in the same French-accented Russian, “Have we met?”

“No,” says Illya, and tucks Gaby under his arm.  “We have not.”

* * *

 

"What was that all about?”  Gaby hisses, back at the hotel.  “You were completely rude to Uncle Rudi and the Vinciguerras.”

“They are all Nazis,” Illya says flatly, searching for his case.  “Pack your bags.  We are leaving.”

“But we haven’t found my father, or his research,” Gaby says, and narrows her eyes.  “Is this about the man who was with Victoria?”

“He is French thief,” Illya finally tells her, throwing all of his clothes into his case.  “We have met before.  It is possible he recognized me, and possible he knows I am not Russian architect.”

“So?”

“So,” says Illya, fighting for patience, “I do not know if he is working for the Vinciguerras or if he is trying to steal from them.  If former, he could blow our cover.  If latter, he could try and kill us if he thinks we are problem.”

Gaby laughs, bitter and challenging.  “You’re afraid of a thief?”

Illya stiffens.  “I am not afraid,” he growls. 

“Prove it,” Gaby says. 

Illya, because of who he is, because of what the world has made of him, does.

* * *

 The Vinciguerra affair ends with the Magpie saving Illya from an electricity-happy Nazi after Gaby betrays him.  He shows up in Rudi’s workshop, shoots Rudi neatly between the eyes, and tells Illya, “Walk it off, Red Peril, your girl’s in trouble.”  The Magpie helps Illya save Gaby, though her father dies in the assault on the Vinciguerras’ island, and kills Alexander Vinciguerra before vanishing, presumably with several million dollars in art and information. 

Illya shoots Victoria in the throat and stops the bomb from reaching its buyers.  Udo Teller’s disk is gone. 

He finds the disk casing on his balcony the following morning, next to a pile of ash.  A crisp white card is propped up against it, an elegant black and white bird inked into its center. 

The Magpie is gone too. 

Waverly, Gaby’s handler—because she is MI6, apparently—meets them both for breakfast and offers Illya a job. 

“You should take it,” Gaby urges.  She’s been apologetic and forgiving all morning.  Illya is mostly just glad she’s alive. 

She still makes him feel like he is made of air. 

“How long have you been MI6?”  Illya asks, instead of accepting.  “When I first met you?”

“Yes,” says Gaby, tilting her chin back.  She is proud, fierce, unapologetic.  She is a good spy, Illya thinks.  She fooled him.  He hasn’t had time to process that yet—he doesn’t know if he wants to. 

He feels betrayed. 

“Since my father disappeared,” Gaby says.  “Waverly found me.  He said the CIA and the KGB would come looking, and I should have someone watching out for me.”

“Did you know I am KGB?  Is that why you—”

“No,” Gaby says immediately, and takes a half-step forward.  “Illya, no.  I didn’t know until your handler showed up, I swear.”

Something loosens in Illya’s chest.  He nods, jerkily.  “Okay,” he says.  “I will consider Waverly’s offer.  I am… I have always been KGB.  I do not know if I want to leave.”

Gaby’s face falls, but she nods.  “I understand,” she says. 

Illya still hasn’t kissed her.  He wants to.

But he does not, because it would not be right, and he gets halfway back to his room before he’s cornered by Waverly and informed that Waverly’s taken him on anyway, no matter what Illya does or does not want.  Illya, because he is a good soldier, turns right back around and follows Waverly to Gaby.

“Agent Teller, Agent Kuryakin,” he says.  “I have a new assignment for you.”  He puts a blurry photograph down on the table between them. 

Illya sees dark hair, a half-smile, a pressed suit. 

“You’ll be going after a thief,” says Waverly.  “They call him the Magpie.”

* * *

 “Where did you first meet this thief?”  Gaby asks, sipping a glass of red wine.  Paris suits her.  Her plum dress stands out against the city’s white and gray stones and bares one shoulder to the evening air.  She will fit in, where they’re going. 

“Kiev.”  Illya, for his part, will only just blend in—Waverly has not yet had time to commission Illya an expensive suit in his size, which means he will have to make do with a cheap one.  “At a party thrown by the general in charge of the Ukraine.” 

They are not going to approach the Magpie undercover.  It would be pointless; he knows who they are and who they work for.  Instead, they’re going to work another angle. 

When Gaby runs into the Magpie—and he is here in Paris, their intelligence suggests that this is his preferred base of operations—she will pretend to be on a different assignment.  Illya will be her backup.  Their cover mission is gathering intel on the French Minister of Defense—which Waverly does want—and Gaby will try and recruit this Magpie to their side.  Or corner him, so they can take him by force.  Either or; Waverly wants the Magpie in one piece, but he doesn’t care if he gets scratched up and bruised along the way.

“He’s been sympathetic to us before,” Gaby had pointed out while they were planning this mission.  “He gave you my father’s research.”

“I do not know if not wanting an atomic war makes this thief sympathetic,” Illya had grumbled.  “I am sure nuclear holocaust would be bad for a thief’s business.”

“He saved your life,” Gaby had argued.  “He helped you save mine.  That has to mean something.”

Saving a stranger from a painful death does not mean this Magpie wants to be shackled to a spy agency, but Illya had let it go.  He and Gaby had found a tentative middle ground in the midst of their betrayals, and Illya was—and is—reluctant to destroy it. 

_Sentiment,_ he scolds himself, finishes his wine, and stands, offering Gaby his arm. “Miss Beauchamp,” he says. 

Gaby takes his elbow.  “Mister Maksimov,” she returns. 

The Minister of Defense, Abelino Paavo, is throwing a soiree along the Seine in front of the Musée de Louvre.  Abelino Paavo is also a Nazi, but that is neither here nor there. 

_La pie_ has successfully stolen from the Louvre seven times since 1945; it is, according to rumor, his favorite museum in the world.  UNCLE analysts are reasonably sure that he’ll be at Paavo’s party; he loves a challenge and the Louvre has recently acquired a collection of priceless vases and tapestries from the Ming Dynasty that’s rumored to be heavily protected. 

This plan is not going to work.  Illya’s under orders, though, so he and Gaby head up to the museum and join the party.

Everyone is a riot of color and noise and movement; Illya retreats to the edge of the party, watching Paavo, while Gaby loses herself in the crowd. 

He does not see the Magpie. 

They stay with the party until the very early morning.  Their thief doesn’t make an appearance, but Illya has the names and faces of people with whom Paavo associates and Gaby’s made connections among the rich and fashionable ladies who attend him, so the night is not a total loss.

“Did you see him?”  Gaby asks. 

Illya shakes his head.  “No.  Did you?”

“Yes,” says Gaby, “but only for a second.”

“Did he see you?”

“Yes.” 

Illya considers.  “We’ll have to try harder.”  He helps Gaby out of her dress, hand lingering on the small of her back.  They still sleep in separate beds. 

When they wake up, it is to a bellhop knocking on their door.  When Illya opens it, gun tucked into the waistband of his sleep pants, the boy is gone and there’s nothing there but a breakfast tray.  Tucked between a small coffeepot and a glass of orange juice is a white card.  When Illya picks it up, gingerly, all he finds is a black-and-white bird stamped in the center, its liquid eyes almost laughing. 

* * *

They continue to work Paavo like he’s their real target, gathering information, putting the puzzle together. 

Gaby gets in with Paavo’s daughter and starts spending every day with her pack of friends.  Illya—playing hired muscle to Gaby’s orphaned heiress—mines his KGB contacts and starts staking out Paavo’s offices. 

Throughout it all, he’s aware that he’s being watched. 

He never catches anyone at it, but he knows a watcher is there.  Strangely enough, he doesn’t feel threatened by it.  His watcher isn’t stalking him with ill intent.  Just… curiosity.  Illya allows it, though he does make a point to shake his tail every so often.  He doesn’t want this Magpie to get any ideas about Illya’s skill. 

No more calling cards arrive with breakfast, but sometimes there will be a glass of wine left at the hotel bar for Gaby or a sweet pastry tucked into breakfast for Illya.  Neither of them drinks the wine nor eats the pastry, of course—Illya wonders how the hell the Magpie found out about his sweet tooth—but the Magpie doesn’t seem to take offense. 

The message is straightforward.  Gaby and Illya are in the Magpie’s city.  They have his tolerance, for now, and his indulgence, but they have to tread carefully.

Illya doubts that they will be able to corner the Magpie and take him by force.  The CIA tried once, a decade ago, and nearly managed to catch him—they shot him, injured him badly—but he slipped through their fingers and nobody’s been able to get that close since. 

_La pie_ is an old thief, and a good one.  In Illya’s experience, thieves can either be good or old; the few that are both are quick, clever, and suspicious.  The Magpie won’t let himself be trapped again. 

“Will he let himself be seduced?”  Gaby asks, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.  She sits almost touching Illya along his knee, his shoulder.  He can feel the heat of her. 

Illya considers.  “Yes,” he says, and knows that Gaby’s right.  He remembers the Magpie in Rudi’s workshop, the light of his quick blue eyes, his slightly crooked teeth flashing in a good-natured grin.  “He is courting us already, I think.”  That’s what Udo Teller’s disk was; flirtation.  The wine, the sweet pastries. 

“Mm,” Gaby says.   “Give me a few minutes, dear.  I have an idea.”

* * *

 “This,” Illya hisses, “is a terrible idea.”

In the dim lights of the Louvre at night, Gaby shrugs. 

“I cannot believe Waverly signed off on this.”

Gaby shrugs again.  “He said we’re on our own if we get caught.  So if you don’t want to spend the rest of your life in a French prison, I suggest you shut up.”

Illya shuts up, though he does glare at the back of her head. 

“Illya, shut up,” he mutters under his breath, following her lead.  “Illya, jump.  Illya, get this, do that.  What am I, attack dog?”

“Dogs are cuter,” Gaby mutters back, and even in the dark Illya can see that she’s smiling. 

That alone makes this almost worth it.  (Well, Gaby’s smile and opportunity to bring in the Magpie.  Twice they’ve met him and twice the Magpie has slipped through Illya’s fingers.  He will not do so a third time.)

Still, Illya doesn’t think that _theft_ should be involved.  He has no moral problem with it—his work has occasionally made theft necessary—but this isn’t stealing from a warlord or a Nazi.  This is stealing from _people._ From an institution designed to give everyone, regardless of who they are or where they’re from or what their parents have done, access to history, to beauty. 

As he creeps through the halls of the museum, Illya Kuryakin can’t help but think that his mother would not approve. 

Gaby leads him through wings and galleries, creeping around guards and cameras, trusting Waverly’s new tech to warn them of any traps or threats. 

Illya has to use the Kiss once, but other than that their progress is unhindered. 

“Here,” Gaby says, stopping in front of a tapestry that probably predates her country, “this is good.”

They tack a note that reads only _bonjour_ to the now-empty wall and leave in a hail of gunfire.  The guard Illya hit wakes up and rallies his fellows around him; Gaby and the tapestry go up into the air shafts while Illya plays target and escapes by diving out of a window and into the Seine. 

When he arrives back at the hotel, dripping wet, Gaby is waiting. 

“I’ve never done anything like that before,” she says, a strange light in her eyes.  “Thing our friend _la pie_ will notice?”

Illya harrumphs and peels out of his wet shirt.  He is not expecting Gaby’s hands on his belly and startles. 

She grins.  “Illya,” she says, and moves closer.  Her hands are warm.

“Chop Shop,” he warns.  “Do not.  We are partners.”

Gaby arches an eyebrow.  “Are you saying you don’t want me?”

Illya wants Gaby so much he thinks he’s going to burn up under the heat of it.  His bones are going to shake him apart.  His heart will leap out of his chest.  Illya’s biggest flaw has always been attachment; not anger, not hatred, but _attachment,_ to people and places and things, ideals, beliefs, fleeting glances. 

He is not in love with Gaby, but he could be. 

He wants to be. 

Gaby must be able read his thoughts in his eyes, because she leans up and kisses him, softly at first, then more urgently after Illya doesn’t pull away.

“Illya,” she says, after a too-brief moment, “Illya.  Do you want this?”

Illya does.  “Yes,” he says, and leans down and lets himself be devoured. 

* * *

When he untangles himself from Gaby’s arms in the morning, there is a single piece of paper folded up on the floor like it’s been shoved under the door. 

The paper is an elegant, heavy cream, embossed with tiny gilded flowers and birds and rampant lions.  Illya snorts.  Predictable. 

On it is written, in surprisingly messy handwriting,

_A mes nouveaux amis:_

_M. Paavo sait._

_La Tour Eiffel, 04 heures._

_Bon chance._

Beneath it the message is a hastily-drawn black-and-white bird. 

* * *

Gaby and Illya run. They have to; if the Magpie is telling the truth and Paavo knows who they are, they have to run.

The only way they’re going to complete their mission now is if they can bring the Magpie along with them. 

Gaby drives.  Illya hangs on for dear life and keeps an eye out for sharpshooters.  They get through Paris without a problem ; the Magpie’s warning gave them an advatange over Paavo and his thugs. 

They call Waverly from a pay phone and let him know their parameters have changed, park a handful of blocks away from the Eiffel Tower, and walk the rest of the way arm and arm. 

They mill around the Tower for almost an hour, and then a waiter comes over and says, in heavy English, “You are Illya Kuryakin and Gaby Teller?”

Illya reaches for his gun, but Gaby puts her hand on his arm and says, sweetly, “We are, yes.  And you are?”

The waiter inclines his head.  “Your table is ready, _monsieur, madame._ ”

Wary, Illya allows himself to be led to a table at a patio café that looks out over the Eiffel Tower.  The Magpie is waiting for them, wearing his dark hair, his half-smile, his pressed suit.  When Gaby and Illya approach he rises fluidly and steps forward to meet them.

He greets Gaby first, brushing his lips across her knuckles and kissing her fondly on each cheek.  Illya he kisses on the mouth, warm and tasting of bourbon, before he steps away and sits, unbuttoning his jacket. 

The Magpie’s eyes, Illya notices, are the same shade of blue as his waistcoat.  The Magpie catches Illya looking and grins.

“Sit, sit,” he says, and his English is American, not French.  “So, _mes amis,_ you escaped from Paavo’s dogs in one piece?”

“We did,” Gaby says, shooting Illya an unreadable look.  “Thanks for the warning.”

The Magpie waves a hand.  “Thank you for the entertainment, _ma chere._ It’s not every day that a few spies wander into my city.”  The patterns on his waistcoat form tiny, perfect birds. 

_Subtle,_ Illya thinks.

“What do you want, Monsieur Pie?”  Illya interrupts, before the Magpie can spin them a story.  They have him sitting here, not more than a few feet away from them, and Illya knows instinctively that they will not get this close to them again.  The Magpie _likes_ them—Illya can see it in his face—but he is a cunning sort of creature.  He won’t be caught.  “Who are you?”

The Magpie grins, imperfect, hungry, and Illya feels an answering pulse of hunger deep in his gut.  “I’m Napoleon,” he says, “and I hear you want to offer me a job.”

 

 

 

_"The wild swan hurries hight and noises loud_  
With white neck peering to the evening cloud.  
The weary rooks to distant woods are gone.  
**With lengths of tail the magpie winnows on**  
To neighboring tree, and leaves the distant crow  
While small birds nestle in the edge below."  
  
-John Clare

**Author's Note:**

> @panarcher.tumblr.com come bully me into finishing all my outstanding projects ay ay. 
> 
> idk if there will be more in this universe or not. i have some hazy ideas, but nothing set in stone.


End file.
